


rehearsing a strange reality

by Againstme



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (not them typical levels anyway), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Archivist Sasha James, Body Horror, But less than in canon!, Gen, Paranoia, So you know Sasha's doing something right, Trans Character, Violence, Well; many of them, set during season 2, slight stalking, you know. the sexy archivist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23917663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Againstme/pseuds/Againstme
Summary: Strangely, somethingclicksand Sasha realises two things. There is something terribly wrong in the archives, and Gertrude’s killer is someone she knows.It doesn't make sense for her to know something like this. There's no proof of anything- the police investigation has barely even started- but Sasha is sure of it. One of her coworkers killed Gertrude. It's the only thing that makes sense. And if one of her coworkers killed Gertrude, then there's nothing really stopping them from killing her as well. She needs to be careful. At least until she has a better idea of who the culprit is.It's not long before Sasha's come up with a plan. It's simple enough: she’ll do her work as if nothing’s wrong. As if there isn’t a murderer in their midst. She’ll continue to investigate her coworkers. She’ll also create secret tapes of her investigations, for the next archivist. Just in case Gertrude’s killer murders her, too.---Sasha, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, deals with the aftermath of Prentiss' attack and her growing paranoia as best she can. And if a few friendships get broken up in the process, well, sometimes that's just how it is.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 41
Kudos: 183





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Girlpool's What Chaos is Imaginary. It's a really good album! and actually Girlpool is just a pretty solid band so
> 
> I know I'm a full month late to this archivist!Sasha thing, but this turned out to be _much_ longer than the initial 2k i was aiming for so, tsé
> 
> Also the working title for this was "fuckers took my manlet, can't have shit in the archives" lmao

The knowledge that Gertrude was murdered puts Sasha on edge, to say the least. 

She'd known that Gertrude had died when she'd accepted her new position as head archivist, of course. It was the first thing she'd asked Elias about when he'd offered her the job. Gertrude had always been a rather robust and strict woman. She'd seemed to take very good care of herself physically, so she was in very good health for her age, and she always gave off an air that she was smarter than everyone in any given room and  _ knew _ it. In the few times they'd spoken, mostly during Sasha's brief stretch in Artifact Storage, she hadn't seemed the type of person who would be retiring, short of being physically incapable of doing her job anymore. Obviously, the recent attack on the archives by Jane Prentiss has thrown a rather large wrench into Sasha's logic, but at the time, she'd figured it was just an archiving job, so the chances of Gertrude no longer being physically able to do it seemed rather unlikely. 

Elias had offered the information freely, saying something about how saddened he was by the loss of such a valued colleague, but he hadn't offered any details on the cause of her death and Sasha hadn't asked. In the end, Gertrude was old, so an accident or a health issue of some kind wasn't unlikely, and she didn't particularly want to accidentally offend Elias while he was in the process of giving her a promotion. Obviously, the notion of Gertrude dying because of something as mundane as a bad fall seems ridiculous to Sasha  _ now. _ Hindsight is 20/20, after all. 

It’s that edge of nervousness, that underlying anxiety constantly buzzing in Sasha’s thoughts, that makes her invite Martin for a more in-depth interview at a coffee shop near the institute hoping that the weeks since the incident have let Martin process everything in more detail. She’d have preferred to do this in the archives, of course, but they haven’t yet been cleared by the ECDC. Luckily, the coffee shop she’s chosen isn’t particularly busy and the handful of other customers have taken seats closer to the front of the shop, giving them a certain amount of privacy.

Martin slowly drinks his tea, fiddling with his mug nervously as he speaks. About halfway through his retelling, a tall man Sasha can't quite place walks up to their table holding two hot drinks. He's not particularly remarkable- plain jeans and a shirt with some bland company logo on it with long blond hair tied up in a ponytail. He places one of the cups in front of Sasha and she's about to say something, ask this stranger what he's doing when Martin finally seems to take notice and smiles as he interrupts his statement. 

“Oh, Jon!” he says, letting out a nervous laugh. “I thought we said we were going to meet up at the institute.” Sasha blinks and immediately she can place him. 

Of course it's Jon, she doesn't know why she didn't recognize him. Maybe the casual clothes put her off. Sure, they've known each other for years, but she'll admit it's mostly been at work. Jon has never been one to go out for drinks after work with her or anything like that. 

Jon shakes his head, pulling a chair from a nearby table towards theirs and scraping it loudly against the floor in a way that makes Sasha cringe, not having quite managed to shake off the tension from earlier yet.

“No, I decided to come a little early.” He sits down, taking a sip of his own drink. “I didn't want you to have to walk all the way back just for us to come back this direction anyway. And-” he points to the drink he'd placed in front of Sasha- “I wanted to suck up to the boss a little. Medium chai latte with one shot of espresso, right?” 

“Um, yes.” She carefully picks up the mug and takes a sip. “I didn't think anyone in the archives knew that but Tim. I usually just get the tea Martin makes.” 

Jon shrugs. “I'm sure it's slipped out at some point. Didn't we go for coffee on my birthday last year?” That definitely doesn't seem right, but she doesn't really see why Jon would lie about such a thing. 

“I, uh, I guess we must have.” Moving on quickly from the subject, Sasha clasps her hands together in front of her, turning back to look at Martin. “Well, I’m still in the process of taking Martin's statement about Gertrude, so maybe it would be better if you-” 

“No, no, it's fine,” Martin interrupts, shifting his chair closer to Jon's. “He can stay if he wants, so long as it's not too much trouble for you, of course.” 

“No, at all,” she answers, ignoring the unease slowly spreading under her skin. “If you're comfortable then it's absolutely no issue.” It's just  _ Jon _ , there's no reason for her to be on edge. It must be the surprise of seeing him here combined with her lack of sleep getting to her. 

As Martin starts to speak again, Jon sneaks an arm around his shoulders, an intimate gesture that, while Martin certainly doesn't seem to mind, feels outright  _ bizarre _ for Jon, especially in such a public place. Despite her best efforts to actually  _ listen,  _ Martin's words shift to background noise as Sasha's focus shifts to the point of contact between the both of them: Jon gently stroking the side of his shoulder, his pale skin in stark contrast with the dark green wool of Martin's jumper. 

Sasha feels cold, a perpetual shiver slowly making its way up her spine, something like fear and dread and slowly simmering anger building up for no real reason as Martin speaks. It’s only when he finally stops and Jon moves his hand away that Sasha can look elsewhere.

Immediately, something  _ clicks _ and Sasha realises two things. There is something terribly wrong in the archives, and Gertrude’s killer is someone she knows.

It doesn't make sense for her to know something like this. There's no proof of anything- the police investigation has barely even started- but Sasha is sure of it. One of her coworkers killed Gertrude. It's the only thing that makes sense. And if one of her coworkers killed Gertrude, then there's nothing really stopping them from killing her as well. She needs to be careful. At least until she has a better idea of who the culprit is. 

Quickly, Sasha grabs the tape recorder, clicks it off, and puts it in her bag. She gives Martin and Jon quick goodbyes before leaving, saying, “Thank you, Martin. I guess I'll, uh, leave you two to whatever meeting you had.” She waves awkwardly, nearing the door. “See you when they're finally done decontaminating the archives.” 

Martin waves, and Jon says, “See you soon, boss,” with a smile that seems shallow. Little more than skin deep.

As she's walking back towards her flat, trying her best and frequently failing not to look often behind her, just in case one or both of them decided to follow her home, Sasha goes over what she has so far. Her best lead right now is Martin's testimony, which Sasha quickly realises isn't a particularly solid lead. 

If Martin did it then he undoubtedly lied throughout the statement to cover his tracks as best he could. As for Jon popping in unannounced- well, that may have just been to eavesdrop and get his story straight if he was ever asked. That isn't to say that Elias or Tim are cleared either. Everyone who's had regular access to the archives since Gertrude's murder is a suspect. 

* * *

Sasha honestly doesn’t plan to return to the archive before her medical leave is up. Even before she realized that one of her colleagues is trying to kill her, the archives were clearly a dangerous place courtesy of the newly discovered tunnels. But staying away from the archives makes an ache settle deep in her bones, some hunger for knowledge and something more she can't satiate. 

When she does come back to work, nearly three weeks early, Jon's the first one she sees. He doesn't comment on it, merely raises an eyebrow before going back to arranging his hair into his usual neat bun and continuing his work. 

She's not nearly as lucky when she stumbles into Martin a few moments later just as he's leaving the kitchen, nearly making him drop the two mugs of tea he's holding. 

“Sorry,” she says, getting out of his way. “I didn't see you there.” 

“It's fine, don't worry about it. Um, hi!” His voice takes on a cheerful tone as he greets her, quickly replaced by concern. “I thought you were still on leave until September? Is everything alright?” 

“Yes, I'm fine. Thank you, Martin,” Sasha answers, starting to slowly inch towards her office. “I just felt a little too cooped up doing nothing at home and there's always work to be done here, so I decided to drop by. Maybe read a statement or two and then leave.” 

She quickly retreats to her office, barely acknowledging Martin's soft  _ don’t push yourself too hard _ and locking the door behind her. 

Her office has been thoroughly cleaned and mostly repaired. There’s even a neat pile of statements already placed on the corner of her desk- probably left by Jon for her to review when she comes back- but Sasha quickly finds that she’s unable to get any kind of work done. 

She tries to go through one of the statements, but she can’t concentrate on it at all. Her brain is buzzing with fear and suspicion. She’s so close to the place Gertrude died, she could-  _ should _ \- go down in the tunnels to investigate. 

She manages to stop herself for the day- with Jon and Martin still in the archives, there's really no way for her to sneak in without being noticed. Instead, she decides to wait until dark, when they'll all be gone, and spends the day digging out everything she knows about her four suspects. 

Sasha quickly realises that she'll need to do further background checks on Elias and Jon. She knows nearly nothing about Elias, and the most she really knows about Jon is that he was raised by his grandmother and has somewhat odd interests that he's passionate about, though she doubts his knowledge of emulsifiers, 18th century hauntings, or proper care for  _ Eublepharis Macularius _ would have helped him kill Gertrude. 

She doesn't know much about Martin, but she does know about his phony CV, and while she certainly couldn't see Martin killing someone over his job, she's quickly realising that she really doesn't know any of her coworkers well. It might have been motive enough. 

And Tim- well, Sasha knows a lot about Tim already. She can't just dismiss him as a suspect based on their friendship, though. He claimed to have never spoken to Gertrude before. Sasha’s confident that she would’ve known if he was lying blatantly to her face, but Gertrude was  _ shot. _ You don’t need to talk to somebody to shoot them three times point-blank. As much as she hates it, Tim has to be on the suspect list. 

Her plan is simple enough: she’ll do her work as if nothing’s wrong. As if there isn’t a murderer in their midst. She’ll continue to investigate her coworkers. She’ll also create secret tapes of her investigations, for the next archivist. Just in case Gertrude’s killer murders her, too. 

The first step, working as if nothing is wrong, is difficult. She's constantly on edge, hyper-aware of everything even while just sitting at her desk. The slight flicker of the neons that light her office have started to give her migraines. She can hear the faint conversations of her assistants outside, although she can’t actually make out most of the words.

For the most part, Sasha thinks she manages not to make too many rash decisions over the next few months of constant paranoia and suspicion. She starts off by running background checks on all four of her suspects. She doesn't find much relevant information that she didn't already know. Of course, knowing that Elias had a wild streak when he was younger is very entertaining information, something that she would usually immediately share with Tim if everything was still normal, it does not help her investigation move along. 

In late November, Sasha manages to get her hands on some bank statements of Martin’s and Jon’s. Martin’s show that he regularly sends money to a care home; not suspicious in itself, but it does shed some light on why he would fake having a CV and how important having a stable income must be to him. Jon’s don’t have anything nearly as interesting or damning, but Sasha does notice that shortly after her meeting with Martin he started regularly going to a coffee shop some ways from the institute. However, short of directly confronting either of them- a line she’s drawn early for herself, it’s too dangerous to let anyone know that she  _ knows _ \- she doesn’t manage to find anything more and the leads are just another dead end. 

She then focuses her attention on the tunnels, exploring them as best she can, diverting all of her restless energy to that task. It’s not long before she's explored them as much as she can safely, and she's back in the archives, constantly surrounded by four potential murderers. 

At some point, one of the detectives investigating Gertrude’s murder comes by and offers to give her some of the tapes discovered with the body. Sasha reluctantly accepts; she’s suspicious of the offer, but too eager for any information about what Gertrude actually  _ did _ in the archives to refuse. There’s so much about Gertrude and her work that she knows nothing about: why Gertrude left the archives in such a state, why she was in the tunnels when she died, why she was murdered at all. She’s not exactly expecting the killer to appear on one of the tapes, but by that point, anything might help.

Bad ideas linger longer than they should in her mind: confronting everyone directly, forcing them to incriminate themselves while she has a tape recorder in her pocket, spying on Tim more closely by showing up unsolicited at his flat, looking through the archives trash bins to see if the killer is being careless with evidence. She manages to stop herself from doing any of them, but only barely. 

Instead she starts carrying a small knife that fits neatly in her back pocket next to her wallet, just in case one of them attacks. Perhaps the surprise of her having a weapon will give her enough of an opening to do some damage and run away to safety. 

But with her investigations at a standstill, she starts to get restless and angry, retreating even more than she usually does these days to the relative safety and quiet of her office. 

It takes less than two weeks of this for Tim to take notice and try to do something about her restless, nearly manic energy. On one of the few days she decides to leave before dark, he corners her near the exit to the archives.

“So,” he says, leaning casually against the wall next to the door, “You've been more stressed than usual this week.” 

“Has it been  _ that _ obvious?” she asks, automatically smiling back at Tim. They haven't talked like this often since the Prentiss attack. Just these few words make everything feel almost normal again. 

Tim shrugs. “You did go hard on Martin on Wednesday. It's not like with you, you know he's not qualified for this.” 

He's right, of course. While Sasha's always tried to offer constructive criticism on Martin's work in hopes that he would be able to improve on his own, she'd dropped the  _ constructive _ part of the process earlier this week, her pent up feelings turning into an accidental screaming match. 

Sasha sighs. “I guess you're right. I'm assuming you have a plan to make me feel better, is that it?” 

“You know me too well, Sash.” He stands up straight, pulling on his coat. “Come on, dinner at my place. We'll cook together and talk some, and you can tell me everything that's been stressing you out so we can figure it out together. It'll be like before all this, when we were still in Research.” 

Immediately, Sasha feels the same part of her brain that has been obsessed with finding who in the archives killed Gertrude push back against the idea. She wants to trust Tim, but, even with her best efforts, she hasn’t been able to rule him off the suspect list, and agreeing to spend an evening alone with him feels dangerous. Anything could happen. She doesn’t  _ think _ that Tim would kill her, but she didn’t think that Gertrude had been murdered either.

“Tim.” She shakes her head, clicking her tongue as she scrambles to find a reasonable enough excuse to not go with him. “It's more complicated than that. I'm your boss now, we can't just have dinner at your place. What if Elias finds out and thinks it's romantic? You know how much he  _ loves _ his paperwork.” 

“Look,” Tim sighs, a tired look spreading across his face. He places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently, a gesture Sasha finds reassuring despite all of her current fears. “I'm not going to force you to come and have a nice dinner with me, even though since last time I have perfected my chicken piccata recipe enough for it to blow your mind, but I would really like it if you did. We don't need to talk about whatever's been going on for the past few months. We can just have a nice dinner in front of the telly if you want! But I do think this would help you relax at least a bit. Besides, how would Elias even find out about this? He might try to pretend, but he's not actually omniscient.” 

Sasha passes a hand through her hair, tightening her messy ponytail before sighing and grabbing her coat. “Alright. But we’re  _ not _ making your piccata again.” Tim opens his mouth to reply, but Sasha cuts him off with a shake of her head, smiling at him. “You  _ do not _ know how to make chicken piccata and it’s not an experience I’m willing to repeat.” At that, Tim laughs, and Sasha finds herself laughing along with him.

“Okay,” he says, “I  _ guess _ I have the ingredients to make some alfredo sauce, if that's acceptable.” 

It is, of course, and Sasha doesn’t waste more time before leaving the archives alongside Tim. 

The tube is still fairly crowded, rush hour only just starting to simmer down. It’s odd to be in a place with so many people. She’s been avoiding crowded places lately, mostly as a side effect of leaving late and coming early to work. The ride passes fast enough, though, especially with Tim sitting next to her cracking jokes and making easy conversation.

Tim's flat is small. He had a bigger place a few years ago that he shared with a few flatmates, but they'd ended up collectively kicking him out shortly after he'd started work at the institute. They'd said something about him no longer being a good fit in the household since Danny's death, having changed too much and no longer fitting in with their “lifestyle.” Tim's fine with it now, of course; he knows which battles are worth fighting. But Sasha remembers how angry he'd been at the time, still grieving and close to falling deeper in his obsession, every time she visits his flat.

The stairs creak under their combined weight while they’re heading to Tim’s flat. Tim fishing through his pockets for his keys. He unlocks the door easily and they both enter.

The entryway to Tim's flat is cramped, just a small welcome mat and a coat rack lit by a dimming light bulb above their heads. Sasha takes off her shoes and heads further inside, passing by Tim's small living room- little more than an old green sofa shoved in a corner in front of a small television with a small, overstuffed bookshelf nearby- and heading straight for the tiled kitchen. It isn't much bigger. The counter space that isn't presently occupied by dirty dishes is barely larger than the stove itself and the walls are so close to each other that it’s only marginally wider than the corridor. It's not the most ideal kitchen to cook together in, but Sasha's used to it by now. Although they've met at her place before, whenever they're cooking, they go to Tim's. Navigating the small space is a hassle, but he has better equipment. 

Tim isn’t far behind her. He drops his keys on the counter next to her, and they get right to cooking. It’s not a hard recipe. Most of the work is just making sure the pasta doesn’t stick to the pot and stirring the sauce so it thickens. But working in tandem like this, it reminds Sasha of how  _ well _ they work together.

Tim continues their earlier conversation as they cook, talking about what he's been up to in his free time lately, not particularly subtly baiting Sasha into talking about what she's been up to lately. Sasha waves away most of his questions, giving generic answers and not offering any details. 

Despite his occasional prying, Sasha finds herself smiling genuinely for what feels like the first time in ages. Tim is nice and he's  _ funny _ , though their conversation still feels hollow. That’s mostly thanks to the part of her brain that refuses to let her forget even for one second that, as far as she knows, Tim very well could have killed Gertrude. Sasha ignores that part of her brain as best she can, concentrating instead on the feeling of normalcy that's been entirely absent in her life lately. 

By the time they've finished cooking, they're gossipping about their old coworkers in Research and Artifact Storage. They both eat quickly- Sasha hasn't had anything since breakfast and the fresh food in front of her makes her suddenly very aware of how hungry she is. Sasha's barely finished her last bite when Tim finally decides to bring up the topic she'd been silently dreading the whole night. 

“So.” His tone is still gentle, but it's serious where it'd been light and humorous moments before. “Are you going to tell me what's been up with you since the worm attack?” 

Her mood plunges. Of course, Sasha knew they weren't going to get through tonight without talking about it. It's why Tim invited her in the first place. He’d told her as much. She'd still been half-hoping he'd drop it all on his own. 

“Tim,” she sighs, looking down at her empty plate. “It's not- It's complicated.” 

“Well.” Tim takes a sip of water, emptying his glass. “ _ I’m _ here all night, and I know that  _ you’re _ free until tomorrow morning when we go back to work. I think we have plenty of time for complicated.” 

Sasha doesn’t immediately answer, instead staring silently at the table between them. It’s a small circular thing, beaten up around the edges, not particularly stable, and with its fair share of marks and stains. She wants to tell him, she truly does, but the air is heavy between them, an invisible wall keeping her from spilling her guts and clearing everything up as much as possible. It would be so  _ simple _ to do, but she can’t seem to form the words in her mind, much less make them come out in any sort of coherent manner. She hates it, hates herself for not being able to just overcome and discard this insane idea that one of the few people she’s ever trusted so entirely is not only a murderer but specifically after her as well.

Tim breaks the silence before long. “We're worried about you, you know that right?  _ I’m _ worried about you. We just want to have some idea of what's going on.” 

“Wait, what do you mean we?” she asks. “Have you told the others about this?” The question feels rotten on her tongue. She's trying  _ so hard _ to trust Tim, and he knows better than to just air out her secrets like this. At least she thought he did. 

“No, no, I haven't. Of course I haven't,” he answers quickly. One of his hands makes its way across the table to gently hold Sasha's. “I didn't really have to. It just came up. Lately, you've been... Well, let's say  _ off _ if we’re putting it kindly. We had a meeting- Jon, Martin, Elias and I- and we talked about whether it was worth holding some kind of intervention or something. I told them to back off for now.” 

Sasha swallows against the weight forming in her throat. She’d honestly thought she was doing a pretty good job at hiding her paranoia, but if even Elias, who was rarely down in the archives, knew, she clearly hasn’t been as subtle as she’d thought. 

“Thanks, Tim. I, uh, I appreciate it,” she says, some of her apprehension melting at the soft look in Tim’s eyes. “I don't think I'd be able to handle an intervention from all of you right now.” 

Tim nods. “I figured as much. I didn't tell them that, but by the end of the discussion I think it was pretty clear why I was so against the option.” He moves his hand away from hers, scratching the back of his head. “Sorry about that.” 

“You’re fine.” The silence between them lingers briefly as Sasha decides what to do. If apparently  _ everyone _ has noticed her change in behaviour and they’ve all talked about it behind her back, maybe Tim will have greater insight about the others than she’s been able to get from her snooping and slight cyberstalking. Of course, Tim could always be throwing false leads her way if he’s the killer, just enough to throw her off his scent without sounding too suspicious. But it’s not like she’s got many other options. She’ll just have to take the risk.

Sasha takes a deep breath before speaking. She keeps her voice steady and serious, reaching for the truth, as if she could forcefully pull an honest answer from Tim just from sheer willpower. “Have you noticed any of the others acting strangely lately?” 

Tim visibly hesitates, mouth opening and closing slightly before he finally settles on, “Besides you?” 

Sasha rolls her eyes, feeling her lips quirking up into a smile despite herself. “Yes, anyone else besides me.” 

“I don't know, Sash.” He taps his fingers against his glass as he thinks. “I guess Jon's been a bit different since getting with his boyfriend. Always going out for lunch, actually leaving on time, that sort of thing. Nothing bad. If anything, he’s doing a lot better than before the worms.” 

“Jon’s got a boyfriend?” Sasha has no idea how she missed that. She’d known about Jon starting to leave on time instead of always working overtime and she knew about his going to lunch at a nearby coffee shop, but she hadn’t been able to tie either of those things to  _ new boyfriend _ . 

“Yeah. Sorry, I thought you knew. He hasn't been subtle about it.” 

“Can you tell me how that happened?” Sasha asks with the same careful steadiness she’d given her first question.

This time, Tim doesn’t need to think about his answer. “From what I heard, he and Martin went on a date a few months ago, a little bit before we came back to work. Martin told me it didn’t work out. Said they weren’t compatible like he thought they would be.” Tim shrugs, continuing, “I think he may have just been a little blinded by his crush. Anyway, after the date didn’t work out, Jon came back a week later with a new boyfriend named Tom. Martin did seem a little heartbroken about it, but he didn’t want to talk to me about it so I didn’t push. Since then, they seem to be going steady. They’re meeting up for lunch nearly every day, stuff like that. I haven’t tried to pry much.” 

“Thanks.” She’s not sure how to feel about all the information Tim has given her. He could always be lying- a fact her brain will not let her forget- but Sasha somehow  _ knows _ that he hasn’t lied. 

“You’re welcome,” Tim answers, face pinched like he’s just licked a lemon. He clicks his tongue dryly and tries to swallow, but the look doesn’t leave his face. “Ugh, my mouth feels weird.” He grabs his glass, standing up.” Just let me get some water real quick.”

Sasha nods as he leaves and taps her fingers against the wooden table as she waits, the dull sound of it keeping her steady. Most of the information Tim has given her is easily verifiable if she just asks Martin or Jon about it. Sure, Sasha’s confident that he hasn’t lied- beyond her weird unfounded gut feeling, she’s gotten pretty good at seeing his tells over the years- but she can’t base the entirety of her investigation on gut feelings. She decides she’ll ask Martin questions soon to confirm Tim’s story about the boyfriend. She just needs to find a way to bring it up organically. 

Tim comes back before long, half empty glass of water in hand.

“All better?” Sasha asks as he sits back down in his chair. 

“Yuuup.” Tim stretches out the word, leaning forward and looking Sasha in the eyes. “So, are you going to tell me why you've just interrogated me about our coworkers?” 

“Tim.” Her voice is choked, small. 

“ _ Sasha _ ,” Tim answers, voice steady and controlled in sharp contrast to hers.

Sasha looks away first, staring at her own empty glass. She shouldn’t be telling him this. It’s dangerous. He’s still a suspect. He still might be itching to kill her the second she gives him the opportunity. She shouldn’t tell him anything. 

“I think someone I know did something bad,” she finally spits out. It’s a simplistic, childish way of putting it, but it’s the first thing she’s been able to say out loud about it outside of her secret tapes and, from Tim’s immediate concerned look, it gets at least part of the job done. 

“Okay.” Tim enunciates the word clearly. “Will you tell me what?” 

Sasha swallows as her heart beats in her chest, threatening to force its way out, rip through her ribcage and fall onto the table between them with sheer panic. She takes a deep breath. It’s better to just say it. Ignore the thousands of thoughts flooding her brain telling her this will get her killed. It’s just  _ Tim _ . She just needs to get this over with. Rip off the band-aid, so to speak. 

“I think someone I work with killed Gertrude.” She says it fast, the words stumbling on top of each other, barely comprehensible, but Tim seems to be able to decipher them after a few seconds. 

He looks at her with wide eyes, disbelief clear. “Someone we know?” 

“I, Tim, it’s-” A laugh, stressed, bitter and just on this side of hysterical starts to bubble out of her throat and she gives up on words, instead putting her face in her hands, trying her best not to spiral into full on sobs and not quite managing it. This entire situation is ridiculous. She took an  _ archiving _ job. Sure, the Institute is what it is. It’s got its quirks, its creepy corners you don’t go to alone, its odd happenings every month or so, but it’s never been  _ this _ . Jane Prentiss shouldn’t have happened to her.  _ This _ shouldn’t be happening to her. 

It seems to be enough of a response for Tim, who breathes out a quick  _ fuck _ and reaches a hand across the table to gently touch her arm.

“Alright,” he says at a normal volume, surprise and an edge of anxiety clear in his tone, “Okay. Why didn't you tell me all this earlier? I've been working with them too. I could've, I don't know, I could've helped! Done something at least.” 

In the moments it takes Sasha to compose herself enough to speak again, she focuses on the contact between her and Tim. It should be a comforting gesture. It almost is. Tim’s hands are warm and familiar. Familiar enough for him to be inherently comforting, but not familiar enough apparently for her to stop thinking of him as someone that might kill in cold blood.

“Because it's not just the others,” she manages, wiping away at the tears still slowly making their way down her cheeks. 

“Then who else is- oh.” Tim slowly takes his hand away as the meaning of Sasha’s words settles, and doesn’t say anything else. The silence between them feels more oppressive than earlier. It feels like she’s just taken a hammer to their relationship, carefully curated after years of hard work despite the many mistakes they’ve made along the way, and destroyed it in one fell swoop. 

Tim exhales audibly once, twice, before speaking again. “Sasha, you do know that I didn't shoot Gertrude, right?” Sasha stays silent, looking down at the table between them, slowly tracing the grain of the cheap wood with her eyes. 

“Why would I kill Gertrude?” There’s an edge of anger to Tim’s voice, even if he’s trying to hide it. Sasha risks a glance up to see him shaking his head, nails digging into his palms as he clenches his fists. “I don’t know what this is. Some sort of weird paranoid trauma response because of the worms or something, but you’ve got to know this is nonsense right? It’s not real.” 

Sasha takes a deep breath, blinking more tears out of her eyes. She’s done enough crying for tonight. “I don’t think I know anything right now. It’s just impossible to prove a negative so, as much I want to, I can’t rule  _ anyone _ out. The only thing I have right now is the hope that I’m wrong about all of this, and it’s just not enough. I’m sorry, Tim. I’m  _ sorry _ .” 

Tim doesn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the table between them. Sasha can guess what he’s feeling easily enough. Anger, betrayal, utter disbelief that Sasha would come into his home, eat his food and then essentially accuse him of murdering some old woman he’s never talked to. She’d probably feel about the same if she were in his position. Really, Sasha should go. She should leave. Before she says something else and makes everything worse. 

She gets up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor of Tim's flat. He looks up at her. 

“Where are you going?” There's still a sort of underlying anger to his voice, though it's not as bad as it was initially. 

“I should go. I'm sorry about all this.” Sasha quickly heads towards the entryway, ignoring the sound of Tim's own chair against the floor as he gets up to follow her. 

“No, Sash, you don’t need to leave.” She doesn’t look back at him, focused instead on getting her things. “I just- fuck, I just need maybe ten minutes and then we can talk this through. We’ll get you help, therapy, I don’t know, but I know this isn’t you. It’s not your fault.” 

“It’s okay,” she answers, “I’m sorry. I’ll see you at work.” 

The door shuts behind her before he can say anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad I can finally post this! I've mostly completed the second and third they just need editing so I'll do my best to post the second one next week!
> 
> Thank you so much to my great beta Sunny [@divorcedmilfaddict](https://divorcedmilfaddict.tumblr.com/) who I owe so much to.  
> And thank you to Monty [@themlet](https://themlet.tumblr.com/) who helped me plot this out!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [@manletjon](https://manletjon.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Comments/Kudos greatly appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Anyway, it's finally here: Archivist!Sasha 2: Not-Jon commits a microaggression.
> 
> The warning for graphic violence is for chapter 3, I'll have more precise warnings in the beginning notes of that chapter

Sasha wakes up early the next morning, as is usually the case these days - she can barely manage more than a few hours of uninterrupted sleep since the nightmares started. Somewhere between her walk home and going to bed last night, she’s decided that it would be better for both of them if she simply avoided Tim for the next few weeks. At least until it all blows over as much as something like this possibly _can_ blow over.

To achieve that goal, she heads to the institute a little after the first blush of dawn on the horizon. She picks up a few completed statements from the corner of Jon’s desk. His computer seems to be broken again, if the flashing of his screen is any indication, and she sighs, hoping that at this point he knows better than to warn her before he calls tech support.

Flipping through the handful of statements, she heads to her office and locks herself in for the day, determined to not interact with anyone, especially not Tim, unless it’s strictly necessary.

The first two statements on the pile aren’t genuine. She can tell just from reading through the statements and the following notes, before even trying to put them through the software. The first is too flashy, too extreme, while the second meanders for pages upon pages, never really getting to the point of things, both of them lacking the edge of true fear she’s become used to when reading statements into the tape recorders. Her suspicion is confirmed when the automated recording software goes through them with no issues.

The third seems genuine at first glance, something about two brothers and a man she suspects to be Michael Crew. She’s about halfway through her initial reading when she’s interrupted by a knock on her door. She ignores it, carefully staying still and not making any noise.

The knock comes again, more insistent. It’s followed by Martin’s voice. “Sasha? Are you in there?”

Sasha sighs, getting up to unlock her door. Martin’s a very caring person, but he’s terribly stubborn if he thinks that Sasha’s locked herself in her office to avoid both his tea and taking care of herself. At least it isn’t Tim. She cracks the door open an inch, just enough to be able to see Martin and not much else. “Yes. Need something?”

Martin is holding a hot mug of tea in one hand and messing with the edge of his light-pink jumper with the other. “Oh, not really,” he says. “I just wanted to bring you some tea and make sure you were still alive in there.” He laughs quietly, an attempt to lighten the mood, and Sasha makes an attempt at a smile. Martin smiles back as he hands Sasha the mug, which she takes half-heartedly. “So, here’s the tea. You should also eat soon. It’s nearly noon and, hah, since you were in already when I showed up, I’m pretty sure you skipped breakfast.

“I’m fine, Martin,” she answers, a little dry, before quickly adding, “Thank you for the tea.” Sasha shuts the door before Martin can get another word in, locking it behind her.

She sets the tea on the corner of her desk and gets back to work. She knows she’ll have to talk to Martin soon, at least to confirm what Tim told her, but for today Sasha settles on doing actual archival work. She’ll get back to her investigation tomorrow.

She decides to only read the genuine statement at the end of the day, shortly after everyone has gone home, since reading statements always takes a lot out of her, leaving her tired and a little bit foggy. She reads the statement around seven, finishing the entire thing at about a quarter to eight. As expected, when she peaks outside her office into the archives, all the desks are empty, in different states of organisation or disarray.

Jon’s is neat, as always. She can already spot a few stapled papers on the corner of his desk, probably more statements he’d managed to complete the investigation on. Martin’s is messier, a few larger piles placed haphazardly on his desk. Sasha knows that Martin gives most statements he’s instructed to research off to one of the others for revision before he gives them to Sasha. It makes sense, after all he wasn’t qualified for the job he initially applied for in the library, much less for this much more hands-on archiving position. Tim’s desk is in the same state of cluttered organization as always, seemingly unchanged from yesterday. Sasha wonders if he even came in. Not that it matters. It’s not like it would have made any difference.

Sasha doesn’t waste any time before putting on her coat, closing the lights to the archives and heading out for the night. She grabs some cheap takeout from the Chinese place near her flat and devours it as soon as she’s home. She hasn’t been eating much lately, even when she doesn’t lock herself in her office for the entire day, and it does take a toll on her body. She takes a quick shower after and goes to bed even though it’s still early. She’s tired and it’s not like going to bed early will make much of a difference anyway. It’s rare that she sleeps long enough to hear her alarm these days, even when she goes to sleep at the impossible hours of the early morning.

She wakes up early, as expected. Her nightmares weren’t too bad tonight, not compared to some of her other nights anyway, but she’s still far from waking up well-rested. Sasha brews herself a quick cup of instant coffee. It tastes awful, but she’s found that it wakes her up better than the other, objectively better, stuff.

As she’s watching the first few moments of dawn, she decides that she needs to talk to Martin today. There’s no point in delaying it, and until she does she’s stuck in her investigation. She’ll let him clock in and get settled, maybe make his first batch of the tea for the day. Then, she’ll ask him to come speak in her office and ask him her questions. She’ll get all the information she needs about Jon and she’ll spend the rest of her day pretending to go through statements and following any leads Martin gives her. A simple, solid plan.

When she gets to work still somewhat earlier than she normally would have, she’s surprised to see Jon already at his desk, fiddling with his computer.

“Didn’t IT fix your computer yesterday?” Sasha asks, heading to his desk to help him out before thinking better of it.

“Sasha!” Jon says, looking up and giving her a bland smile. “You scared me. I wasn’t expecting you here this early.” Without giving her time to apologize, Jon shifts his focus back to the dark screen in front of him, pushing a strand of blond hair behind his ear, “Yeah, I thought they did as well, but I came in this morning and it shut off on me again.”

Sasha sighs and motions for Jon to move over so she can get a better look at what’s going on with his computer. This has to be the sixth computer he’s broken in the recent months. It’s not his fault, of course. So far it’s all been what seems like legitimate hardware malfunctions that she can hardly fault him for and, on top of that, Jon’s never been great with technology, having somehow grown up in the ’90s without ever so much as touching a keyboard before his twenties. However, that doesn’t stop it from being frustrating.

She leans down to get a proper look at the machine, jumping back in surprise when Jon abruptly slams a drawer shut near her. She frowns, taking a look at the drawer. It’s nothing remarkable. Just the bottom left drawer of his desk.

Jon is quick to catch on to her look and apologize, “Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t in the way and I just don’t know my own strength, I guess.” Jon laughs softly, like this really is just some innocent mistake, not a hint of some deeper secret he’s hiding like Sasha’s already starting to suspect, and Sasha forces herself to push down that familiar paranoia and smile back.

It only takes a few minutes of Sasha fiddling around for her to figure out what’s gone wrong with his computer. Once she’s found it, it’s an easy fix - just switching around a few wires.

Jon’s face lights up as the login screen finally fades in. Sasha’s about to leave for her office - it shouldn’t be long until Martin arrives, he’s always been very careful to arrive on time, and she does want to plan out her questions more thoroughly - but Jon grabs her hand, making her freeze. It’s a friendly gesture, or it’s meant to be, but his hand is cold against her skin and the texture is off, tacky, almost _gummy_ , and Sasha freezes like a cornered mouse.

“Thank you so much,” he says. His tone and smile are as genuine as Sasha ever remembers them being, but they still fall short of showing any of the true, _normal_ emotion she expects.

His grip is tight, but Sasha still tries to pull her hand away as fast as she can without downright ripping it from his grasp. She’s unable to completely hide how unsettled she is and her voice shakes a little, “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it. Anything to save you from IT’s wrath. They must hate you by now.”

The cold, sickly feeling leaves as fast as it had come once Sasha has managed to get her hand back. Sasha blinks once and looks at Jon again. He’s still smiling the same way, but this time it looks normal, like it should, and Sasha has no idea why she’d thought differently just moments before.

“I don’t think they hate me just yet,” Jon answers, shrugging broadly with a smile. “They’ve told me I’m a _very_ likable guy.”

Not knowing how to respond, still reeling from the random rush of fear and adrenaline, Sasha just laughs and retreats in her office, shutting the door behind her. She tries her best to shake off the creeping fear from her encounter with Jon but doesn’t quite manage it. It’s ridiculous, of course. Sure, she’s investigating Jon specifically right now, but that doesn’t mean that Jon accidentally slamming a drawer or him having weirdly cold hands means that he killed Gertrude. She’s not basing her investigation on much, but it has to be at least a bit more concrete than that.

It’s a relief when, about half an hour later, she hears Martin knock on her door, probably with some tea.

“Come in,” she says.

Martin opens the door slowly, holding two mugs of tea in his right hand. “Hi, how are you doing today?” he asks, stepping inside to bring Sasha’s tea to her desk.

“I’m doing well,” Sasha replies, clearing a spot for Martin to put down the tea. “Is that other mug for you?”

Martin places Sasha’s tea in the spot she’d just cleared and nods. “Yeah, I already gave Jon and Tim theirs and I didn’t feel like making three trips to the kitchen.”

Sasha takes a deep breath before speaking. Might as well do this now. “Alright, that’s great,” she says, keeping her voice steady, “Martin, would you mind closing the door? I need to speak to you about something.”

Immediately, Martin’s casual demeanour changes. He stands up straight, fixing his shirt and looks back at Sasha with a faltering smile. “Of- of course,” he says, heading to the door and shutting it. He stays in place next to the door, though he does turn to look at Sasha, radiating nervousness.

Sasha sighs, motioning to the chair in front of her desk. “You should probably take a seat.”

Martin sits down as asked, setting his own mug down on the desk in front of him with a shaking hand. “Can I ask what, uh, what this is about?”

“Nothing serious at all.” Sasha places her hands in front of her and does her best to make eye contact, though Martin can’t seem to hold it, nervously glancing towards the ground. “I just had a few questions for you.” He nods silently, fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt. “Have you noticed Jon acting strange lately? Has he done anything suspicious? Anything that put you off?”

The question seems to take Martin by surprise. His dark brown eyes widen and he lets out a small relieved chuckle. “Um, I don’t-,” his voice shakes as he speaks and he takes a breath to steady it. “Not particularly. Why?”

Sasha shakes her head, clicking her tongue. “Martin, this is important. I’d much rather you didn’t lie to me.”

“I’m not _lying_ to you,” Martin says, slightly strained. He folds his arms over his chest. “I-I mean, sure, Jon’s been acting _differently_ than- than how he used to, but it’s not- I wouldn’t call it _strange_ or- or _suspicious_. It’s just… Prentiss aftermath,” Martin finishes, lamely.

Which, frankly, isn’t anywhere near the answer Sasha was hoping for, but it’s something, at least. “How so?” she asks, leaning forward slightly in her seat.

Martin frowns, shifting uncomfortably and looking away. “Why are you asking me? Has he done something wrong? I’m uh, I’m really not comfortable speaking behind people’s backs like this, especially not about their personal lives.”

“So he’s been off,” she confirms, doubling down. She’ll regret it later, she knows, but-. “What’s been different about Jon? Have you noticed him being more private than usual, trying to hide things? Did he start acting differently before your date? Or after?”

Martin looks up at her, startled. “What? H- you- how do you know about that?”

“That’s not the issue here.”

“You’re right, it isn’t,” Martin says, shaking his head. He shoves his chair back, preparing to stand. “The _issue_ here is that you’re asking me to- to badmouth Jon for no reason! If you want to talk about people who’ve been weird, why don’t we start by talking about how you’ve been acting? We’re not stupid, you know, we- we know how you’ve been going behind our backs doing God knows what. Investigating the tunnels under the Institute in secret, digging up private files you shouldn’t have access to, and now what? Trying to make me admit Jon’s done something wrong? _Why?_ What are you trying to _do?”_ Martin stands and starts to make his way to the door. “I’m not- you can’t make me talk about this. I’m going to go.”

“Martin!” Sasha snaps, slapping a hand on her desk with enough force to make the mugs of tea rattle slightly. Martin stops dead looking back at Sasha. She takes a deep breath before continuing. She needs to at least seem _somewhat_ composed. The others are right outside. “Please, just answer.”

Martin exhales, sharp. “So you can continue this downward spiral of yours and drag us down with you? No. I’m- I think it’s about time we talk to Elias properly.” Martin reaches for the doorknob, and Sasha feels panic surge in her chest.

“Martin, I know about your CV.” The words slip out of her mouth before she can properly think them through. Martin freezes and looks back towards her, his eyes wide and fearful. Jaw clenched, Martin breathes in and out audibly and goes back to his seat silently. “I’ve known about it- well. I’ve known for quite a while. But it’s not an issue for me,” Sasha says. “However, I am sure that it will be problematic for other people. Elias, for example.”

“So I answer your questions,” Martin says, quiet, flat. His hands, clasped in his lap, are white-knuckled with something she guesses is terror. “And you don’t tell Elias.”

“Yes,” she answers, “That’s exactly what’s about to happen. Unless you’d rather I make a quick phone call right now?” Her voice is steady, even as the guilt, a heavy weight in her chest, starts to latch its ugly claws into her heart and turn her stomach.

As the moments tick by, she can feel Martin’s fear slowly turning into rage. It prickles in the air like static electricity; sharp on the back of her tongue like sparkling water, something not quite bitter. There’s only so long one can be afraid.

“You know what, I don’t-” Martin’s words stop short, empty air leaving his lips. Martin looks up at Sasha and opens his mouth as if to say something else, but nothing comes out of his mouth. He repeats the motion, a look of concern growing on his face until Sasha moves a hand slightly towards the phone, and he shakes his head.

“You don’t have to do that,” he sighs. “What do you want me to tell you?” Martin scoffs, not meeting Sasha’s eyes. “What do you want to know, Sasha?”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Sasha asks, a gentle, guilty thrill running down her spine at the prospect of finally getting new information. “When did he start to change? On your date? Did something happen, then?”

Martin shudders, mouth twisting, then sighs. “After Prentiss, right around when you and Tim got released from the hospital, Jon asked me out on a date. I thought it was a little- I mean, he’d never shown interest, so I’d always thought I- I thought he didn’t… I thought that he’d … realized something, or maybe it was some kind of near-death experience panic, or…”

“Pity,” Sasha surmises. “You thought he took pity on you.” 

Martin shrugs. “I said yes, obviously. We went on a walk before going to dinner. It wasn’t anywhere particularly fancy, but it was definitely more expensive than the places I usually go to. It, uh, it was alright, I guess. I don’t really remember. He had- he made this comment.” Martin chews on the inside of his cheek. “You know, it’s my mistake, clearly, but I always thought Jon was trans like us before we went out.”

“ _What?”_ Sasha asks, taken aback. “I- him? Why would you- _why?”_

“I don’t - I don’t _know,"_ Martin snaps, obviously frustrated. He rakes his hands through his hair, the curls standing on end. “But I was so _sure_ he was trans. I mentioned how I started transitioning a few years ago, just- just off-hand to encourage Jon to confirm he was trans on his own. But, uh.” Martin pauses, letting out a sardonic little laugh. “He made some fun comment about how _interesting_ it is, how he’s never seen himself going out with _someone like me_ before.” Martin’s mouth twists again, and he folds in on himself a bit, crossing his arms and looking down and away, shoulders hunching. “So, I- I guess I was wrong about _that._ Clearly. Aside from that, the date was utterly unremarkable, except that it was with _Jon.”_

Martin sighs again, shifting in his seat, biting down harder on the inside of his cheek. “It sucked. I- I went home. I cried. A week later, Jon had this new boyfriend. I didn’t- I didn’t feel nearly as sad as I thought I would. I’d already been on my own- been through my own kind of grieving process, I guess. As far as _changed behaviour_ goes,” Martin says, and she can hear the air quotes, “I guess- he doesn’t work himself into the ground anymore: he leaves on time, actually takes his lunch breaks, that sort of thing. I think he goes to lunch with his boyfriend a few times a week? He’s just being- he’s just doing _normal_ and _healthy_ things, now.” 

Martin puts his head in his hands for a moment, then looks up, and Sasha almost looks away from the anger in his eyes. “Is that enough for you?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sasha answers, because it is. It’s been useful, she didn’t just blow up her relationship with Martin for nothing, and something like relaxation is uncoiling down her spine. “Thank you, Martin. This was very helpful.”

_“Great!”_ Martin exclaims, acerbic cheer dripping from his voice. “Glad I could be of use to you! What do you want me to do with the _rest_ of my day, boss?”

Sasha blinks at him for a moment- Martin’s usually fairly good about self-starting. “Uh, well, what statements are we looking over this week?”

“Oh, do you not know them?” Martin asks, tone still with the same synthetic cheer. “It really seems as though _you_ ought to be keeping track of things like that.”

“I, uh, alright,” Sasha says. Martin keeps looking at her with an expectant little smile, his eyes hard and accusatory. His hands are folded neatly in his lap once again, back straight and legs crossed at the ankle. The picture of a perfect office drone, and so utterly unlike Martin. “Why don’t you ask Tim what he’s looking into and help him with that?”

“Perfect!” Martin chirps and the pep in his voice nearly makes her jump. “I will do that! _Great_ talk. I’ll be seeing you!” He stands up and brushes off his trousers, putting the chair back where it belongs almost delicately. The door shuts neatly behind him with the silent click of the latch.

The lack of force is almost worse than a slam.

Guilt trickles down her throat like saltwater- first Tim, now Martin. She pushes it aside, lest she drown in it. It has to be worth it, in the end. She’ll _make_ it worth it.

The archives feel off after. Martin no longer brings her tea, which, in all honesty, she had expected, but he doesn’t seem to even make tea for the rest of the staff either. In fact, it becomes obvious fairly quickly that Martin has stopped doing anything other than the bare minimum work asked of him. Nearly every time Sasha leaves her office, she can see him at his desk scrolling idly through his phone. 

Two weeks later, Tim follows her into the kitchen as she goes to make her own tea. She forces herself to not make anything of it. They haven’t talked since the incident at his flat and Sasha really doesn’t want to be the one to accidentally start a conversation. So, she stays silent and hopes that Tim will come do get what he wants and leave without so much as looking at her.

Of course, Sasha’s not that lucky. 

Tim clears his throat to catch her attention, saying her name when she pretends not to hear him. “Sasha,” he says. He doesn’t sound angry like she expected him to. Instead, he sounds almost scared, of all things. “Why haven’t you fired Martin? Or at least _talked_ to him?”

The question makes Sasha look up from where she’d fixed her eyes on the counter and stare straight back at Tim. He looks awful, the bags under his eyes are pronounced, his hair is messy and he’s been picking at the scars on his face again. “What? Why would I- I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“He hasn’t been doing any work. You have to have noticed _that.”_ Tim clenches his fists, nails digging into the palms of his hands. “Look, I know what you said to him last week. He told me, there’s no use denying it,” he adds before Sasha can try and start making excuses. “And now, well, he’s barely been doing his work, he’s slowing everything down, and you’ve proven that you could get him fired easily without any pushback from upstairs. So, _why haven’t you fired him?”_

Honestly, the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Sure, Martin’s been affecting output enough for her to notice despite how distracted she’s been, but she hadn’t ever considered something so drastic as firing him. “Why are you asking me this? Do you _want_ him to get fired?”

“Maybe I do,” Tim replies. “Maybe he does too.” 

“What?” Sasha can’t keep her surprise from showing on her face, “ _Why?_ If he wants to leave so badly why doesn’t he just- why doesn’t he just _quit?”_

Tim bites his tongue, considering her for a long few seconds before speaking. “Because he can’t.” Sasha freezes, staring at Tim wide-eyed. “Neither of us can. Martin wanted to while you were talking and he said that he couldn’t. Then he had me try to write up a letter of resignation and…” Tim trails off, looking away and crossing his arms. “Sasha, why can’t we quit?”

Sasha doesn’t answer, instead trying to form the words in her mind. If Martin wants to be fired, she’ll do it, of course. But the words slip just out of her grasp and she finds she’s unable to get them in order, much less say them out loud. “I- I don’t think I can fire you either.” Sasha presses her hand to the bridge of her nose, pulling her glasses up. “It’s this place… I’m sorry, Tim.”

Tim’s voice shakes slightly as he speaks, “I don’t understand.”

“Me neither,” Sasha says. “I just know that there’s something wrong with the Archives and, whatever it is, I think it wants to keep us here.”

Tim stays silent. He looks tired, defeated. Any heat that he’d had when he’d first come in has disappeared, replaced with a deeper, more piercing horror that Sasha can taste, something sharp and acidic on her tongue. “So, what do we _do?_ ”

“I suppose we just do our jobs. For now at least.”

“I don’t want to,” Tim answers and it makes Sasha's heart ache.

“I know. I’m sorry,” she says. It’s not enough, nothing she could say right now would be. Not after she convinced him to take this job in the first place. But there’s little else left for her to say.

Tim swallows and starts heading for the door. “I, um, suppose I’ll see you later.”

He leaves without waiting for an answer and Sasha is once again alone in the kitchen.

* * *

A bit over a month passes before Melanie comes to give a second statement. More ghost stories, more war, more death, coppery like blood in her mouth. The most disturbing part of them is her plans to track more down.

“So, India then?” Sasha asks, still looking over the photocopied memoir Melanie has given her.

“Yeah, my plane’s already booked.” Sasha’s disbelief and apprehension must show because Melanie continues, “I- hush. It’ll be fine. Nothing I haven’t already dealt with. You get it, don’t you? Why I have to do this?”

The drive to _know_ , to dig up the things that are hidden and forcing them into the light where they can do nothing but simply be _seen_. Of course Sasha understands.

“So, you came here to give your statement in case…” Sasha trails off, not wanting to be the one to bring up the danger first.

“In case I get stabbed _extra hard_ this time,” Melanie completes. “Don’t want to leave you in the dark if a bunch of ghosts kill me, yeah?” She sits up in her chair and stretches before leaning down to grab the bag she’d brought with her. “Where’s Jon by the way? I didn’t see him when I came in.”

“I’m sorry?” Sasha says, because- Jon was the one who brought her down.

“Jon? Your assistant? Does he still work here?” Melanie frowns, swinging her backpack over her shoulder and standing up- Sasha stands with her. “A friend of mine found some of his old stuff in her storage and she wants to give them back, but he hasn’t been answering her texts.”

“Didn’t he lead you down here?”

Melanie laughs softly. “Oh, is that guy named Jon as well?” She smiles at Sasha, apparently oblivious to the effect the current conversation is having. “Are you collecting them now? A little _army of Jon’s?”_ When Sasha stares at her blankly, she continues: “I meant the Jon from when I last came here, back last April, I think. Did he quit?”

“I’m sorry,” Sasha says, smiling, thankful that her voice doesn’t quiver even as she feels her throat tighten, her face flush. There’s a thread of truth being pulled at, yanked on with every word Melanie says. She can feel it on her tongue, down her throat, cutting off her air with every tug- she needs it out before she chokes. “A few people have- we’ve had a few people move departments recently,” she lies. “I’m _so_ awful with names, it’s not even funny. I could probably remember where he ended up transferring if you just … reminded me what he looks like?”

Melanie shoots her a dubious look and Sasha tries to turn her smile up a notch, but it feels painted on, like a doll’s. She clasps her hands behind her back to hide the way they’re starting to shake. Melanie sighs. “Well, he’s short- to put it mildly.” She raises her hand to about her shoulder, frowns at it, and then lowers it to her armpit. “Real tiny? Just barely above a meter and a half. Skinny too. Looks fragile, like a baby bird or something. And, uh,” Melanie stops speaking, frowning slightly and biting on the end of her thumb. “Dark skin and… short, black hair? I think it’s curly. And he has dark eyes and these thick, square glasses that give him kind of a nerdy look. You know, just… pretty much the opposite of whatever the hipster hunk has going on out there,” Melanie stops again, brow furrowed. “Do you _really_ not remember him?”

“No, I remember him!” Sasha says. There is no one at the Institute who looks like that. There has never been anyone at the Institute who looks like that. “Of course, Jon. He got transferred to Artifact Storage, which isn’t accessible to the public, I’m afraid, but I can always get a message to him if you want.”

“Sure,” Melanie answers, readjusting the strap of her bag, preparing to leave. “Just tell him to text Georgie back and if he lost her number or something then… I don’t know, just tell him to make a Facebook. It’s easy enough, he can probably manage it.”

“I’ll tell him the next time I see him, don’t worry,” Sasha says. She shouldn’t lie to Melanie like this, but she doesn’t see herself having many other options. _Actually, the man you’re describing is a total stranger to me and I think he’s been killed and replaced or worse_ doesn’t feel like it’ll fly.

Sasha wishes Melanie luck as she leaves and, as soon as the door is closed, Sasha rushes to the tape recorder. She clicks it off and pockets the tape - she’s not about to let something so invaluable stay in the archives where Jon, or whatever “Jon” is, has such easy access. Now that she has no reason to keep up the act, she can feel her fear start to take over. Her heart beats hard and fast in her chest, threatening to make its way out through her ribcage, melting through the flesh, bone, and skin like butter. Her attempts to take slow, steady breaths don’t help much.

She tries her best to piece together the puzzle that has been laid out in front of her. There have been statements talking of things not being as they should be, _people_ being replaced without anyone noticing. The more she thinks about it, the more she can see the cracks in the facade that she’d glossed over before. It’s all little things, of course, she wouldn’t have been able to smooth out anything much bigger. It’s Jon knowing her coffee order even though she’d never told him, it’s him always breaking his computers, it’s Martin thinking he was trans when he so clearly _isn’t_ , it’s the cold feeling of raw, unfiltered fear and _wrongness_ she gets whenever he touches her or the people she knows.

She hears footsteps outside the door and Sasha knows instinctively that the thing that is not Jon is coming. She can’t let it know that she’s figured out its ruse, not yet. Not until she has a plan, a way to get the real Jon back, or, at the very least, a way to kill it properly dead and avenge him.

Even though she was expecting it, the knock on the door nearly makes her jump out of her own skin. “Come in,” she says, voice unsteady and clearly panicked despite her best efforts.

The door opens and Jon looks at her for a second before saying, “Oh! I’m sorry, Sasha.” The thing pretending to be Jon smiles and, finally, Sasha understands why she’s had odd moments where everything he did seemed shallow and fake. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

As she looks at the thing pretending to be Jon, Sasha can’t help but compare the details she’s been told from Melanie with the thing in front of her. It doesn’t take long for her to realise they have _nothing_ in common. The thing in front of her is tall and too muscular to be considered _fragile_ by any stretch. Its eyes are a dull, flat blue, and he’s pale, almost anemic looking. His hair is long and blond, kept in a neat bun on top of his head. Sasha can’t place a single feature she’s been told about by Melanie onto the man in front of her.

It feels like some sick joke.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sasha says carefully. Sasha’s not quite a good enough actress to hide the panic in her voice when face to face with whatever is pretending to be Jon, but Jon’s never been one to pry or ask questions. At least she doesn’t remember him to be. “Melanie’s statement was just a bit intense. I’m still on edge.”

Despite knowing how futile it is - she has no memories of Jon ever being any different than this, no memories of a Jon anything close to the person Melanie described - Sasha tries to patchwork together an image of Jon based on the description she’s gotten, something to replace this perversion that’s replaced Jon so easily. She doesn’t manage it.

The thing that is not Jon smiles down at her, as if it’s somehow following her train of thought. Now that she finally _knows_ , Sasha feels like the things about it that don’t quite manage to be _human_ are obvious. The too sharp teeth, the neck slightly too long, empty eyes that are more akin to a doll’s than a person. It’s all so obvious, Sasha doesn’t know how she missed it for so long, even with all her investigations.

“Well,” it says nonchalantly, “I just wanted to ask you if it’s alright if I head out early today? Tom’s plans changed last minute and he’ll need help with something as soon as possible.”

Sasha hadn’t expected something so mundane to come out of its mouth. “Right,” she answers, a little stunned, “Of course, just clock out and I’ll, uh, I’ll see you Tuesday?”

“I’ll see you Tuesday,” the thing parrots. It smiles at her, a parody, then turns and walks away, closing the door behind it and leaving Sasha alone in the archives, trying in vain to reconstruct what Jon truly looked like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll have the third and final chapter up in probably another 2 weeks. This has been really fun to write I'm glad I get to share this part :)!
> 
> Thank you to Monty [@themlet](https://themlet.tumblr.com/) for being a great beta <3
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [@manletjon](https://manletjon.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Comments/Kudos greatly appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry this is so late but it's finally here! :)
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter are:  
> -blood and slight gore  
> -body horror  
> -violence

Sasha doesn’t go home that night. She can’t. Not while knowing that this thing, this  _ imposter, _ has been lurking right under their noses, tricking all of them into treating it like a friend, into thinking nothing is wrong. 

She has to figure out how to kill it.

She’s not going to be stupid about this. She can’t just stab it wildly on sight, not when she has an entire  _ archive _ full of statements to look through and try and gather information from. Jon is only the latest of this thing’s victims. There must be some other statements somewhere in the mess.

Sasha starts with the statements that Gertrude had left the most disorganised. There has to be a reason why she’d left the archives in such a state- it’d be a good preventative measure against being infiltrated by things like the fake Jon. 

While that definitely limits the actual number of statements she has to go through, it does not make the task any less gruelling. Reading statements is draining, always has been, and it’s hard for her to skim when she keeps falling into the rhythm of the words, feeling them on the tip of her tongue, itching to read them aloud into the tape recorder. Sasha manages to stop herself from being pulled into the statements that call to her and draw her in, instead slipping them in her bag for safekeeping. All of the ones she’s picked out are genuine- if the impulse to read them out loud wasn’t enough of a hint, the stale, dry taste that settles on the back of her tongue with every new statement is a dead giveaway- and they may be useful to her later.

She destroys her office in the process, leaving boxes of disorganised and quickly discarded statements to litter the floor of her office. She has no doubts that she’s separated many statements from their follow-ups, and she knows that a proper archivist should care, but she’s too worn down to even pretend any part of her cares about something like this at this point.

It’s nearly six in the morning when she finally stumbles onto what she was looking for in one of the boxes filled with statements from the ’90s. She almost misses it entirely- there’s another statement filed neatly behind it that’s much thicker, something she could really sink her teeth into, but it’s sticky to the touch with cobwebs. She jerks her hand back, makes a face as she wipes her hand on her shirt and picks up the shorter one instead, figuring that, well, she can come back to it. If she gets desperate.

She doesn’t have to. Sasha’s not even skimmed through half of it before she lunges for her tape recorder. 

“Statement of Lawrence Moore regarding something that was not his cousin. Incident occurred in London. Statement given June 12th, 2001. Committed to tape February 14th, 2017. Sasha James, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute recording,” She tells it, and then the words flow out of her mouth with an easy rhythm, their fear cotton candy sweet.

The statement leaves her wanting more. Sure, it’s given her a lot of information: a way to concretely prove that the Not-Jon- as the statement called it- is in fact  _ not Jon _ , and established a concrete link between the creature and the table in Artifact Storage, but it doesn’t give her much else. She wants to  _ know _ this thing inside out, wants to know what kind of link it has to the table, wants to know how to hurt it, wants to know if it’s possible to get Jon back. 

There has to be a statement with more details somewhere, a statement by Adelard Dekker even. So, Sasha continues her search, though she has a nagging feeling that she won’t have any luck. She used to be so  _ good _ at research, but something changed when she became Head Archivist. Now she’s always stuck scrounging for scraps of information, forced to operate on the bare minimum.

In the end, that nagging feeling is right. It’s approaching nine when she gives up completely, having accomplished nothing else of use. She’s gone through all the boxes she could find from the ’90s, even dipping back into the ’80s with no luck. At some point, Sasha has to call it quits and move on to something more productive. Like killing the Not-Jon.

Her plan for killing the thing is simple. She’ll look through Jon’s desk for some shred of concrete proof that thing is, well, not  _ Jon. _ Something to show the cops and to ease the slight fear she has that she’s gone off the rails and is planning to kill her friend, not some imposter. Then, there’s the matter of weapons. She still has her knife, tucked in her pocket. It’s a small thing, the blade barely longer than her finger with fake bone in the handle and cheap brass at the back end. It’s not much, and Sasha doesn’t expect to be able to do more than disable it for a time. So, she needs a proper weapon. Something she’ll be able to easily walk through the Institute and into the archives. Sasha takes a few deep breaths, considering her options. She could try to sneak something inside, stuff an axe she bought nearby at the bottom of her bag and hope no one questions the handle sticking out of it, but that’s too risky. No, her best bet is Artifact Storage. Get a cursed axe or one of the haunted guns and use the handy “artifact” tag on it as an excuse to bring it into the archives. Once she’s got her weapon, she’ll avenge Jon. She’ll chop the Not-Jon’s head off, or shoot it until it’s more bullet hole than living being, she’ll make sure it’s dead and unable to hurt anyone else.

Sasha’s just hoping she’ll survive. 

She’s about to leave her office and start her search through Jon’s desk when she hears the familiar creak of the floorboards outside her door. Sasha swears under her breath.  _ Of course _ someone’s right outside just as she’s about to start going through with her plan. She pauses a moment to steel herself before grasping the knife in her pocket and opening her office door a few centimetres.

Sasha cringes as the old hinges creak open, the sound seeming to bounce off the walls of the otherwise silent archives. 

“Sasha?” Tim’s voice. It’s  _ just _ Tim. Sasha lets out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. She lets the door swing open wider, and sees Tim and Martin standing in front of her door, staring. “Christ, you look like shit,” Tim says after a beat, “What’s going on?”

Sasha silently curses herself for not thinking they would be here. Of course they are. They still have to  _ work. _ But it’s not a big issue. Sasha’s determined to not make it a big issue. She’s sure she can get rid of both of them pretty easily, it’s not like either of them really want to be here at this point.

“Nothing,” she says, scrambling to find a solid excuse to make them leave. “Uh, would both of you come into my office for a few minutes?” 

Sasha goes to open her door wider, knocking it directly into a shaky stack of boxes, which promptly lose what little balance they had and topple onto the floor. She grits her teeth at the state of the place, but it’s too late to change track now. She’ll deal.

Tim and Martin give each other a  _ look, _ but Tim shrugs and starts heading towards her office, Martin in tow.

Tim whistles as he first enters and gets a good look at what Sasha’s done to her office. “Been busy, have you?” he asks, eyeing the scattered statements- at some point she’d stopped bothering to put them back in the folders, and pages are scattered loosely across every flat surface.

“When did you have time to  _ do _ all this?” Martin mumbles, toeing at a paper he’d nearly slipped on.

Sasha ignores their comments, swallowing down her embarrassment and trying to make herself seem much more put together and boss-like than she currently is. She clears her throat, forces herself to keep her gaze on them, not acknowledging the mess that’s taken over her office.

“So.” Sasha clasps her hands together and stretches out the word in an attempt to buy herself a few more seconds- the mania of her all-nighter is fading, and it’s getting hard to  _ think.  _ “I don’t want to keep either of you here long, really, I’ve wasted enough of your time already. I wanted- I wanted to apologise for my behaviour as of late.”

Martin scoffs. “Oh,  _ really?” _

“Yes,” she says firmly, “I know I’ve been, uh, let’s say a bit unprofessional and… out of sorts lately, so I’ve decided to give everyone here an early weekend.”

Whatever reaction she was expecting from her announcement, it certainly isn’t the dead silence and confused looks she gets.

Martin speaks first. “You- you do know it’s  _ Tuesday, _ right?”

Fuck. “Yes. Of course,” she lies, “I’m saying that we should all take the entire week off. With pay, obviously,” she adds quickly because as much as Martin loathes her and this place, he might not go for it otherwise. Neither of them move, continuing to stare at her dubiously. She didn’t know Martin’s eyebrows could go that high. “You can both leave now.” Sasha cringes a bit at the obvious frustration and desperation in her voice and tries to rein it in. “Go home. Go out of town for the rest of the week, take a break from…  _ this. _ It’s fine. It’s my apology.”

“Sasha…” Tim trails off, a pinched look on his face. The genuine concern in his voice stabs at Sasha’s heart. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course,” Sasha answers immediately. “I’m fine.” She smiles at Tim, but he remains obviously unconvinced. “I just want to catch up on a few statements and then I’ll also be going home for the week.”

“What about Jon?” Martin asks.

The question takes her by surprise, and she can’t stop her smile from faltering. “Oh,  _ Jon.”  _ Sasha laughs, trying to play off the question without attracting suspicion. “He got here early, as usual, so I already told him to go home for the week. You don’t need to worry about him.”

Martin frowns and opens his mouth to say something else, but Tim puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “No, it’s okay, Martin.” Tim holds her eyes, focused like he’s trying to read her thoughts off of the inside of her head. “We should just go. We’re not about to say  _ no _ to a random  _ paid _ five-day weekend, are we?”

“R-right.” Martin hesitates but allows Tim to start pulling him towards the door.

“I’m sorry about everything,” Sasha blurts out when they’re halfway out the door. If she doesn’t make it out of this-

Tim turns back to look at her. He looks  _ tired. _ “Bye Sasha,” he says, his voice filled with a heavy sadness. “See you next week.”

Sasha swallows thickly, bites her tongue. Martin closes the door behind him, and Sasha waits for the sounds of them packing up their things to stop before leaving her office.

It doesn’t take them long, but the minutes wasted makes Sasha twitchy. She wants to get started, wants to get to the end of this. The thing that isn’t Jon could be here any second. Really, it should already be here. She’s not sure why it’s decided today is a good day to be late to work, but she’s not going to start questioning her one stroke of luck.

It doesn’t take her long to find the tapes, maybe a little less than ten minutes. She finds them in a blank cardboard box, tucked into the far corner of the bottommost drawer, and Sasha feels like kicking herself for not rifling through Jon’s desk earlier. The labels on the tapes themselves aren’t anything out of the ordinary. None of the  _ Recordings of the real Jonathan Sims _ Sasha was half expecting to find. Instead, she’s left with three tapes: statement 0051701, statement 0160204, and a third tape, unlabelled.

With shaking hands, she grabs the first tape and inserts it into a nearby tape recorder. It’s Leanne Denikin’s statement. Sasha remembers it well enough, remembers at least that Jon had interrupted her during that recording, and she fast-forwards in short increments until she finally finds the part she’s looking for.

“I think it should be pronounced  _ kuh-ly-o-pee.”  _ Sasha feels her blood run cold, an acrid taste slowly spreading across her tongue, at the voice in the recording. It’s deep, low, pleasant, and entirely foreign to her ears. The opposite of the Not-Jon’s nasal and sometimes grating voice. Despite everything she already knows, Sasha’s almost ready to believe that it’s some other person who happened to pass by and interrupt her until she hears the rest of the tape.

“Jon?” she hears herself say, “You’re back early. Weren’t you trying to get police records for the Harold Silvana case?”

It’s worse, she thinks, to be right. She hadn’t expected that. Somehow she’d thought that she’d feel satisfied, righteous. 

She just feels sick. She listens to the rest of the conversation with Jon. His voice makes her heart ache, heavy in her chest.

The next tape isn’t any better- Jon giving his statement after his encounter with the being calling itself Michael and what was left of Timothy Hodge. She still doesn’t recognize his voice.

It feels like every word coming from him is another punch in the gut. How could she have been so naive, so  _ blind? _ She’s known Jon for years, how did she not see that something was wrong? Was there even anything she could have done? Could she have…

Numbly, she replaces the statement with the final tape.

Jon’s voice echoes strangely out of the speakers, the sound of his footsteps layered under it. “I see why you hate this place,” he says. It’s faint, but Sasha can hear the slight fear in his words, can feel the slight metallic taste of it being painted on her tongue, like blood or iron. “I’ve never had much of a reason to go to Artifact Storage before. I… I suppose it  _ does _ have this ominous sort of energy to it,” he admits. He stops talking then, leaving Sasha with nothing but the sound of his footsteps echoing through the large space. “Oh, I believe I’ve found… I’ve found the table you were talking about. Hm, I don’t really see what all the fuss is about. It’s just a, uh, a basic optical illusion. Nothing special. It’s just…” Jon trails off again and Sasha can hear some quick shuffling.  _ “Sasha!”  _ he hisses, panic dripping from his voice, and it hurts to be so directly addressed. She’ll never hear him say this again. “Sasha, I think there’s someone here.”

Sasha’s heart seizes from the dread and fear of what she knows is about to happen, the metallic taste in her mouth getting overwhelming.

When Jon screams, a blood curling, terrified thing, Sasha can imagine the pain he went through, can almost feel the pain he felt as the thing dug its claws into his skin and  _ pulled, _ as it tore and ripped through him and took and took and took until there was nothing left behind to find.

This is the moment Jon died. 

The recording continues, like it hasn’t just captured one of the most terrible deaths someone can have, offering Sasha a familiar voice, even through the distortion. They are nothing alike.  _ “Hello?” _

“Hello?” the same voice says behind her, this time free from any distortion. Sasha slaps the tape off. She turns towards the door and sees the Not-Jon, a wide smile upon its face. “What are you doing at my desk, Sasha?”

The sight of him fills Sasha with a white-hot rage that burns up all of the grief and fear she was feeling. She knows she should do fucking  _ anything _ that isn’t so obviously stupid and borderline suicidal like confronting the Not-Jon empty-handed. But Sasha can still feel the pain Jon went through, the echo of it settling deep in her bones and shaking her to the core, and she knows she doesn’t have any other options.

In her pocket, she hears the familiar  _ click _ of a tape recorder turning on.

“Drop the fucking act,” she snaps. “I  _ know _ what you are. I  _ know _ what you did.” Her fists, clenched at her sides, her nails digging into the flesh of her palms, shake slightly as she tries to figure out what to do. She needs to find a solution to this  _ now, _ unless she wants to be just another stranger’s voice left on a tape for Tim and Martin to find.

The thing in front of her widens its eyes, a poor mockery of confusion and surprise. Its smile does not waver for a second, staying plastered upon its face, like it was painted there. “What are you talking about, Sasha?” It asks innocently. “I thought we were friends. Have I done something to upset you?” It pulls up Martin’s chair and motions for Sasha to sit, the movement of its arm  _ wrong, _ bending awkwardly in places joints shouldn’t be. “Sit, darling. I know you’ve talked to the others, I think it’s time you talk to me, good old reliable  _ Jon. _ Maybe we can fix this miscommunication of ours,” he says, sugar-sweet, though his voice grates against her, salt in the wound.

“Shut. Up.” she snarls. The thing laughs in response, like this is all a joke, like Sasha’s heart isn’t pounding in her chest like she’s not moments away from pulling her knife and ending him. Still playing its little game.

“Come on now,” it says, finally breaking its smile to give Sasha a sad look. “I know I’ve never been the most emotionally open of the bunch, but I’ve always tried my best to be understanding.” Slowly, Sasha reaches her hand into her pocket, hand circling the cold handle of her knife. She keeps her eyes locked with the Not-Jon, swallowing down the pieces of bitter fear that make it through the rage. “Don’t you remember the Christmas party last year, right before you and Tim-”

Somehow, that’s the thing that breaks her, reaches the very end of what she’s willing to handle- the mention of a wound that never healed quite right, even before Sasha went and fucked everything up between her and Tim.

Sasha lunges forward and rams her knife into its neck. 

The skin parts easily around the blade, with an audible sound, like breaking porcelain. The split lances up far beyond the wound, revealing underneath layers of uniform dark red flesh. 

There is a pause, then. Sasha’s breath is loud and harsh as cold, thin blood bubbles merrily out of the wound, covering her hand and dripping to the floor, inaudible. The Not-Jon looks at her, eyes wide and mouth slack, and were she not aware of what it was, she wouldn’t have picked up the incredulous nature of the expression-  _ are you kidding me? _ It hauls in a huge breath, crackling around the blood in its throat, and  _ screams. _

The sound rings with a terror that feels real, that makes her grit her teeth as she hauls back and jabs at its throat again, toppling them both over with the force of the blow. Blood sprays from the now open wound up into her face and the  _ taste _ of it nearly bowls her over- it smells faintly of candy but tastes of something chemical, like rubbing alcohol or bleach. She coughs and spits, retching, skin buzzing where it splashes against her. 

The Not-Jon jerks beneath her, grabbing at her wrists and letting out bubbly little giggles. “Sasha!” it yelps, the motion splitting its skin up through its lower lip. The dark red flesh turns black where it meets the white roots of its teeth. “W-What are you doing? We’re friends, remember? I-It’s me, Jon-”

“Shut up!” Sasha screams back, and her next blow is sloppy, off-centre, slamming through its chin with ease. “Shut up!” Through its eye, which pops like a balloon, splattering her with a clear, viscous fluid. The giggle cut off into pained, little whines, and its mock desperation becomes real as its feet scramble against the floor, nails clawing at her arms and across her cheek.

“Please,” it warbles, sounding almost animalistic in its plea. “Please-” 

Sasha stabs it through the neck again, close to the clavicle. Twists the knife, watching the skin split up, up, peeling back across its face to reveal more raw, red muscle. It mumbles out a final little whine, hands going slack, body going still and quiet.

Sasha staggers to her feet, immediately overbalancing and slapping her hands against the desk to stay upright. She stays there for a moment, gasping for air, feeling her skin go numb wherever the blood has touched it. She stumbles a few feet away, puts her back to the wall, and sits down hard. Not-Jon stays limp and still, though blood still oozes from the exposed flesh, adding to the mess that surrounds it- sprayed across the desks, puddled on the floor, a thin splatter marring the white tiles of the ceiling.

A laugh bubbles out of her throat.

Without thinking about it, Sasha raises one hand to push her glasses up on her face, a few drops of blood falling on her cheek with the same odd fizzing feeling. She curses, looks around for something to try and wipe her face with and quickly realises there’s nothing she can really do- her shirt is just as covered in blood as her hands are at this point. She should probably- she doesn’t know. Move the body to the tunnels, maybe. It wouldn’t be the first time the archives held blood but no body-

The body twitches. Once. Twice. 

When Not-Jon sits up, it does so with ease. It stretches out its arms like it hasn’t been hurt, like it’s not missing half of its skin. It looks up at her.

If it still had a face, she knows, it would be smiling.

Sasha whimpers softly as it starts to laugh again. “Oh,  _ Archivist,” _ it says, any pretense about being Jon having fallen away. “Did you think  _ this _ would be enough? I stole your friend’s skin, I stole his  _ life, _ and you thought some little  _ blade _ was going to be the end of me?” It pulls out the knife she’d stupidly left lodged in its throat and throws it against the ground, hard enough for the handle to shatter, the pieces of white plastic clattering across the floor. “I thought the new Archivist would have been smarter than this. Aren’t you supposed to  _ know _ things? Strengths? Weaknesses? I’d have thought those statements of yours would tell you those things.” It shrugs, an exaggerated motion that lets Sasha see the way its limbs are stretching out, growing longer and less human with each passing second. “All the better for me, I suppose. I think I’m going to enjoy wearing  _ you _ much more than I did him.”

It stands up slowly, not in any more of a rush than when she’d first started this confrontation. Why would it rush through this? It obviously has Sasha right where it wants her: scared right down to the bone, the burn of it sharp on her tongue, like battery acid. This thing is going to kill her. It wouldn’t even take much effort on its part. But it’s giving her a chance, a way out by going slow. There has to be a way to defeat it, a weakness she hasn’t thought of. She just has to find it. She is  _ not _ going to become another Gertrude, another fucking  _ mystery _ , rotting forgotten in the Archives-

The table, she thinks. The string that ties the statements together.

Sasha runs. The Not-Jon laughs, and she somehow knows when to duck so that its massive hand swipes over her head. Its limbs and torso are impossibly long, leaving it towering over Sasha, head almost reaching the ceiling. She knows that if it wanted to, it could overtake her with a single step.

It doesn’t. It doesn’t even try to reach her.

It lets her go. Still laughing, still toying with her. It thinks it’ll have time to catch her, but artifact storage isn’t that far from the archives. She can make it. She has to. There isn’t another option.

She throws the door open and slams it shut behind her, risking a glance back through the window as she fumbles with the lock to buy herself a few more seconds. It takes slow, even steps towards her, peeling off the leftover bits of skin and throwing them aside as it walks. Its legs bend in too many places.

Sasha pulls the fire alarm and pelts down the hall towards Artifact Storage. 

It’s empty by the time she arrives, the fire alarm still shrilling horribly through the room, loud enough to make her grit her teeth as she drops her sprint into a jog. It echoes off of the cavernous walls, somehow unmuffled by the shelving and storage she’s dodging through. She’s out of breath and if she wants to destroy the table, she’ll need to find something to break it with.

Working in Artifact Storage is dangerous, to say the least. She used to say it was the worst part of the Institute, which is laughable in retrospect. “Oh, I just think there should be more safety measures in place,” she hisses to herself in between breaths, bitter and mocking. “To make sure no one gets hurt!” She smashes the glass box sitting on the wall with her elbow to get at the axe inside, shielding her skin with her jacket. “I mean it’s the-,” she staggers slightly as she lifts it off the hooks. It’s much lighter than she’d thought it’d be, and she’d overbalanced. “God! Most dangerous place in the fucking Institute!” She chokes on a laugh and slings the axe over her shoulder like a baseball bat. “No, Tim, you don’t  _ understand! _ We don’t even get hazard pay! We just have an axe on the wall! How could an axe possibly be enough?”

Larger items are kept in the back. Sasha breaks back into a sprint, only slightly hindered by the heavy axe in her hands.

She hasn’t heard any commotion coming from the Not-Jon since locking it in the archives, but that doesn’t mean it’s because there hasn’t been any. The alarms are hideously loud. 

Sasha rips the tarp off the table when she finds it. She knows in her gut what it is before seeing it, but she wants to watch it as it gets destroyed, wants to watch as the carved lines and flimsy wood that tie the Not-Jon to life break under the weight of her axe. The axe bites into the centre with a crunch. The second hit cracks through it, and the third splits it entirely in two, wood clattering against the floor as she looks to see what was inside the odd hollow. Nothing but old dust and cobwebs.

For a few blessed seconds, she believes she’s done it, and she laughs breathlessly.

Something laughs with her, familiar and terrible. She jerks, turning and lifting her axe, prepared to strike.

“That was very stupid,” says the man, thing-  _ whatever- _ that’s appeared behind her, leant up against a yellow doorframe. His fingers tap against the painted wood with a nauseatingly arrhythmic  _ snap. _ He is smiling, of course, close-lipped, and by all appearances normal everywhere save for his reflection in the china cabinet to the left of him.

“What do you  _ want, _ Michael?” Sasha asks, blinking as sweat that’s been beading along her forehead drips into her eyes, cold down her spine. 

Michael pays her words no mind, taking a few easy steps away from his door. His reflection curves and ripples in an odd combination of colour and greyscale, like someone throwing a rock into still water. Sasha can see a huge hand swipe right through his neck in the reflection as he reaches up to adjust his scarf. “There’s no other way out of this room, you know.”

And that’s the first thing that makes Sasha pause. She’s done everything right, hasn’t she?

“What?” she asks, strained as her throat tightens.

“You don’t have time to escape before they get here.” Michael grins, a wide ugly thing, showing teeth that seem to slowly shift around, changing shapes and colours in a way that makes Sasha feel dizzy.

“No,” she says, small and clinging to the last bits of her hope,  _ “No! _ I destroyed the table! It- It was-,”

“It was binding it quite effectively.” 

Sasha’s world feels like it’s crumbling around her. Of course the table wasn’t this thing’s weakness, the only thing that could kill it. If it was, why would it let her run all the way to Artifact Storage without rushing to stop her? She missed it. She should’ve thought things through more thoroughly, she should’ve not fallen for such an easy trick, she should’ve…

The axe falls to her side limply, and the taste of her own bitter fear fills her mouth again. “No,” she repeats. “No!” She’s not dying here, she will  _ not- _

“Even with all the protections you have on, I doubt you can survive them now,” Michael adds, nonchalant as he walks back towards his door.

Distantly, Sasha can hear her name being called, distorted and nightmarish. Her grip tightens on the axe.

Michael opens his door with a loud creak.  _ “You need a door.” _

It’s a trap, she knows. The doors into Artifact Storage crack once, twice, hit the floor with a bang, and she can hear the Not-Jon calling her name again, dangerously close.

“Fuck,” Sasha whispers under her breath. There’s really no good option here. Michael smiles at her still, and steps sideways, holding the door, beckoning her in. Sasha grits her teeth and clings harder to her axe as she runs for the door.

Michael closes it behind her with a loud creak, leaving her in the dimly lit hallways beyond.

* * *

When Sasha finds the exit, the door slams shut on its own behind her and she is met with the musty and humid air of the tunnels. She quickly pulls her phone out for some light, checking the time as she does so- it’s been barely ten minutes since she entered the corridors. She’d been looking for the exit for hours.

She wanders briefly, sticking close to the walls, trying to get her bearings without much luck. Even after hours and hours spent in these tunnels, she’s not quite managed to map them out entirely.

Lacking any other options, Sasha keeps walking in hopes she’ll cross a familiar chamber. The axe is heavy after all this time, and she passes it and her phone from hand to hand to keep from tiring. 

She knows it’s coming for her before she hears it- there’s a shift in the stiff air of the tunnels, nearly imperceptible, that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Sasha!” The Not-Jon calls. She drops immediately into a crouch, switching her phone’s light off. The darkness swallows her, pressing heavy and wet against her skin. She doesn’t dare even breathe.

It calls for her again. It’s closer. She goes to stand again, and the head of the axe scrapes across the stone like a death rattle. Loud, impossible to miss. The Not-Jon laughs and Sasha launches into a sprint. 

Her feet hit hard against the stone floor, and she turns her phone back on, not keen on running entirely blind in a place with lots of sudden turns. The thing is gaining on her, she’s panting hard, barely keeping up her pace, but she’s still a few precious metres ahead. 

Sasha risks a glance behind her, trying to see how close it’s actually gotten, and the world blurs suddenly and sharply downwards. She barely twists in time to get her axe to the side of her, shoulder slamming hard into the stone floor, the rock she tripped on clattering across the ground.

She scrambles to her feet, but she’s not fast enough. It walks up to her, forcing her to lean back against the wall as it looms over her.

_ “Found you!” _ It says, a smile plastered on its broken face visible even in the low light. Sasha pushes herself further into the wall, feeling panic rise up like bile. “I wonder…” The Not-Jon leans closer to her, its bright eyes focused on hers, inescapable. She hauls back to hack at its face, but there’s no room for a swing. It rips the axe from her hands and throws it carelessly to the ground behind them. It’s become more horrific, more monstrous since she’s last seen it. She can hardly even recognise the false Jon from her memories in what remains of its body- somewhere between her initial escape and now, it’s stretched itself out, cracking bigger pieces of its skin and showing more of its innards. 

“If I wear you, will I really become the Archivist?” it asks. “Rob the Eye of its pupil?” Sasha doesn’t answer, can’t begin to even try and understand its nonsense questions. She looks around and tries to find an opening, a way to escape. There has to be something, some way of getting out of this. Its skinless lips quirk into a frown. “Probably not. Better to just kill you, I think.” The thing has left its right side open. She tenses to run, and it stabs its arm into the wall, breaking off a piece of the stone like it’s nothing, mere centimetres from her face. Sasha shrieks. 

She’s going to die here.  _ She’s going to die here. _

A gentle whirring snaps her out of her terror. The tape recorder. Has it been working this whole time? Are her final moments being recorded just as Jon’s were?

“Please forgive me,” she whispers. Maybe this will get to them before it’s too late. Maybe she can save them, still, even if she can’t save herself. “Martin, Tim, if either of you are still alive, p-please. Get away from the Institute. Get-,” she chokes on a sob, tears filling her vision. “Get as far away from all this as you can.”

The Not-Jon doesn’t acknowledge her words. “Yes, I think that would be best. One less problem during the Unkno-”

Sasha can’t quite describe what happens next- the thing is there, and then it is screaming, and then there is a wall, groaning into place in front of her. 

Sasha looks up from where she’s sprawled on the floor and the man in front of her- old and dirty, with overgrown grey hair and an open book in his hands.

Sasha lunges for her axe, scrambling to her feet. “Who the fuck are you?” she snarls.

The man doesn’t react to the venom in her voice, instead closing his book and lighting his own flashlight. 

“Sasha James?” the man asks, and Sasha almost laughs. Of course this stranger knows her name. Who  _ doesn’t _ these days? At least he’s not calling her by her  _ job title. _

Still, Sasha nods silently. If her instincts are right, this man is about to give her something precious, something that’ll let everything finally stick together and fall into place.

“I'm Jurgen Leitner.”

“Of course you are,” Sasha says, because, of course, this is dead-for-years Jurgen Leitner, standing in front of her with a flashlight and a book. It crosses her mind that this is another trap, another  _ thing _ that wants to fill her with worms or to steal her skin or some other horrific thing she can’t even begin to imagine. But her reality, as a rule, has to allow for flesh hives and creatures that can replace entire lives unnoticed now. Jurgen Leitner being alive is hardly a stretch. Besides, she’s going to get some answers out of him even if she has to rip them out with her  _ teeth. _

“I think it’s time we had a talk,” he says after Sasha doesn’t add on anything else. Though she’d been prepared to do whatever necessary to get some answers, Sasha can’t say relief doesn’t crash over her at the offer. She’s too exhausted to beat up an old man right now. Finally, someone is offering her a hand to help her out of the dark, offering a way to finally  _ see _ and  _ understand _ the craziness that now surrounds her.

Sasha’s not stupid enough to refuse such a thing.

She nods, letting the axe drop out of its readied position. She could kill him before he could take another book out, she’s sure. Sasha can hear the tape recorder in her pocket, still greedily whirring, and she feels the corners of her mouth twitch upwards. This is going to be good.

“Yes,” she says. “We have a  _ lot _ to talk about, don’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! I really loved writing it and I do have some plans for shorter follow-ups to this AU. Other than that I'm currently plotting out a Martim fic that'll hopefully come out some time in July.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful beta, Monty [@themlet](https://themlet.tumblr.com/), who helped me rework a lot stuff in this chapter and is also just a great and very funny person
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [@martingerry](https://martingerry.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Comments/Kudos greatly appreciated!


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